My Aga Khan Academy Years – Fashionable!

I accumulated my cash slowly. I took to carrying lunch from home. Mother would boil rice for my sisters and I in the evening. Often the dish would be sprinkled with tomatoes, or carrots. Mostly with potatoes, since these were cheaper. Taking lunch to school was tricky business. A dish of plain rice, flavored with leek onions, salt, and a spoonful of oil could not compete against the sumptuous dishes served at the Aga Khan cafeteria. There were all kinds of goodies to be had: half chicken with fries, burgers, meat, chicken, and veggie pies, beef sausages, and pizza. For drinks, you had a choice of smoothies, soda, fruit juice, or chocolate milk. But all these goodies cost money: more cash than my lunch allowance. It wasn’t too difficult acknowledging that this diet would not be for me. I grudgingly accepted my simple bowl of rice. Gradually becoming less and less embarrassed about joining my peers at the cafeteria bandas while they feasted on juicy chicken thighs. I watched my piggy bank grow, even though once in a while I’d indulge in a bottle of Picana mango soda.

Finally, one Monday, after receiving my weekly bus and lunch money it seemed like I had enough cash for my RENKs. I put aside what I’d need for my five-day commute, feeling very rich. But I chose to bid my time. It was better to wait till Friday, or at least Thursday, in case it rained and my bus ticket went up which would have skewed my calculations. School couldn’t end early enough on the Friday afternoon I picked up my boots. All through Social Studies I dreamt about that new shoe smell. I skipped my evening library session that day, and dashed out the gate as soon as we were let out. One matatu later, I was speed walking from Odeon Cinema towards King’s Collection.

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I woke up to prepare for the first service at Embulbul Mother of God Catholic Church.

Most of these shops are owned by Asian Kenyans, with a black labor force. The black guy watches you for a bit once you enter the store. You’ll probably have to leave your back pack at the entrance with the guard. In his store keeper’s coat, the salesman looks short for his height. The shop is plugged with an aroma of ubani, Indian incense; other exciting spices mingle in the air. But I hadn’t walked in to exercise my olfactory muscles. I made straight for the boots, pointing them out and inhaling deeply as the salesperson placed them on the counter in front of me. This is a big ticket item. The guy doesn’t know whether to begin anticipating a nice commission or to indulge my obviously overpriced dreams. He plays along when I ask to try on the shoes. I sit at a bench, emblazoned with a scale that customers could use to determine their shoe size, and take off my black and dusty school shoes. The fellow comes around from behind his counter; what the hell, his demeanor suggests , it’s a slow afternoon after all, I have a few moments to indulge this kid.

I tried on the size 9s; they were a bit too small. I had no wriggle room at the back of my foot. The attendant suggested I try a size 10. the second pair fit a lot better. With a pair of socks on, they were just snug. I concluded that’s the pair I’d be taking home with me. It was now time to see  if I could squeeze a discount out of the Mhindi. I asked again about the price as I put my school shoes back and stood up. The sales attendant repeated the original sticker price. I’d shopped with my mom often enough to know that the shop would offer me a small discount if I persisted. I looked at the main boss, seating behind the register in a sleeveless cardigan, holding his unshaved face in his left arm. Bored. He dismissively interjected and gave a slightly lower final price, only KSHS 50 discounted. I figured I should take what I got. The shopkeeper suddenly  got a lot more animated when I moved to pull out my wallet. He was glad I hadn’t simply been wasting their time window shopping out my price range.

I handed over the cash. The manager rang up the till, deposited the cash, and handed my receipt to his clerk. The sales attendant looked at the receipt, confirmed that indeed I’d paid for my boots in full, even though he’d witnessed the whole transaction. Bureaucracy! He  then proceeded to pack my boots into their box, carefully extracting the old bunched newspapers which had been used to help keep the shoes in shape. After being deposited in a cardboard box, the shoes were placed in a plastic shopping bag. The big shiny kind that you take with you on your annual trip to the folks upcountry. This is the kind of plastic bag that declares its modernity; it screams of middle class luxury and is content in its ostentatiousness. It calls attention to itself. You cannot face it and not marvel at its holder. I walked out feeling richer than I’d walked in. And isn’t that the marvel of consumerism? You spend your hard-earned money and walk out feeling as though you’ve just made a billion dollar investment.

This was Friday. I couldn’t wait for Sunday mass. I woke up to prepare for the first service at Embulbul Mother of God Catholic Church. I always went for the 8am service. I liked how efficient it was: one hour, in and out, and you’re salvaged from eternal damnation. It was such a good deal, I usually threw in a Wednesday evening service at half past six on my way home from school. Another great bargain: you got served prayers, worship songs, AND Holy Communion, in under 30 minutes. Sunday eventually, slowly, rolled in. I might have been headed to church, but I was dressed to kill. My pants were tailor-made; the material had a brown sheen to it, like velvet, but not quite. I wore my trousers above the waist at the time. It was a classic mode made endearing to us by Congolese Lingala musicians. I paired it with a white t-shirt, with yellow arm bands. Then I had my boots; I was looking hot.

I got to church on time, and mass went on without a hitch. There was one girl I’d been eyeing for a month or so now. She usually sang with the youth choir, and also served as the liaison between the youth group and the parish administration, including Father Kevin, the in-house priest. It was with much dismay that I realized she’d missed first mass this morning. Perhaps I’d run into her on the way out, I consoled my disappointed self. Once we exited the church, back under a clear blue sky, with the sun already promising another hot equatorial afternoon, I forgot all about Ciku. I was off chasing another skirt; one who lived much closer to my house. I’d spotted Waithera sitting on the other side of the church from me. She was not an early morning kind of person, so this was my one opportunity to chat her up as we walked back home together. This was going to be exciting! I’d almost walked towards her to say hello, when I remembered I had some shopping to do before going home. Argh! My Casanova role was immediately replaced by the butler in me. It was off to the grocer’s for sugar, salt, and flour. If I was quick, I thought, I might yet catch up with Waithera. Needless to say, that walk back to my house was hurried, and fruitless; either the girl was too fast for me, or she took an entirely different route home. What a waste of an entirely handsome outfit!

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